


Everything Carries Me to You

by Cousin Shelley (CousinShelley)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Affection, Altered Mental States, Angst, Banter, Childhood Trauma, Claudia Stilinski Memories, Companionable Snark, Derek Needs a Hug, Dreams, Fear, Forehead Kisses, Friendship/Love, Grief/Mourning, Holding Hands, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentioned Kate Argent, Mentioned Nogitsune, Past Sexual Abuse, Rebuilt Hale House, Recovery, References to canonical character deaths, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Stiles is Derek's Anchor, Teasing, The Hale Fire, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-17 17:12:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1395985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CousinShelley/pseuds/Cousin%20Shelley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Derek realizes that his conscious mind isn't in control while he's talking to Stiles in the high school locker room, Stiles decides to take charge of their situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Come On, Dorothy

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for episode 3x24. 
> 
> I missed the Stiles and Derek snark, banter and wonderful energy throughout the entirety of season 3b (so, so much), so this is me getting them back together again, as well as exploring why Derek's mind supplied him with Stiles in the first place. 
> 
> I've only ever posted whole stories in one big chunk, but I've been persuaded to try chapters for a change. We'll see. 
> 
> The title is a line from Pablo Neruda's "If You Forget Me."
> 
> Come say hi on [Tumblr](http://cousinshelley.tumblr.com)!

“How can you tell if you’re dreaming?” Derek could smell the smoke from the weapons that had been fired in the loft. He remembered the pain. He still felt the horror, the almost crushing despair, when Kate had walked close enough for him to see her. But he didn’t remember passing out, coming to, or anything that happened after she transformed in front of him.

He didn’t remember meeting Stiles here, or even calling him. Calling anybody.

Stiles looked as worried as Derek felt. “Fingers. In dreams you have extra fingers.”

That’s right--Scott had mentioned that to Derek when they’d been searching for Stiles. Said he’d counted his fingers all the time to make sure he was awake. Derek gripped Stiles’ wrist and lifted his hand. It took a moment to register what he was seeing--a thumb and five of Stiles’ long, thin fingers. He blinked, closed his eyes, looked again. Six fingers. _This wasn’t real_.

“Look at that,” Stiles said, surprise on his face. “This is a dream. So that means--”

“I’m asleep. Or unconscious?” He let go of Stiles’ wrist.

“Yeah. The last thing you remember was getting shot and seeing Kate? Shot in the chest?”

Derek nodded. “In the heart.”

“Wolfsbane?”

“I--maybe.” He shrugged. “I don’t really know.”

Stiles leaned close. “So you could be unconscious. Or you could be dying.”

Derek didn’t lift his head, but shifted his eyes up to look at Stiles. He gave a short, sharp nod.

“How odd that of all the things you might see in your last seconds, it’s me.” Stiles smiled as if he might be pleased by that. He leaned a little closer and spoke softly. “I hope you’re just knocked out and okay, or . . . hallucinating or something. I don’t want you to die, Derek.”

They locked eyes for a moment before Derek smirked and shook his head. “I was just thinking how nice it was that you cared enough to say so, and then I remembered that you’re a figment of my imagination.”

“But that would mean I’m saying what you want me to say.”

“I guess.”

“In other words, _you want_ me to care.”

Derek pressed his palms against his eyelids and sighed. “I just don’t want to die, and I’m expressing that through you.”

“We both know that’s not true.” Stiles stood and paced, his arms crossed in front of him.

“What are you talking about?”

“You don’t really care if you die.”

Derek’s head snapped up, but he couldn’t argue. “I don’t want to.”

“Right, you’d _prefer_ not to, but if it happened, you wouldn’t be all that put out about it.”

Derek stared at him for several seconds, then shrugged.

“But I care, Derek. Scott cares. Cora. I’m sure zombie psycho Uncle Peter cares in whatever unnatural way he’s capable. Chris Argent. Isaac, Lyd--”

“It won’t make much of a difference if I die.”

“It’ll make a difference to enough people that you should stop thinking that way. So maybe, you know,” he waved a hand at Derek, “look deep within yourself, or get in touch with your inner survivalist, or get Zen with your wolf parts or whatever, and find it inside yourself to fight. _If_ you’re dying, I guess. Maybe you’re not. Fight for consciousness, at least, because you can’t really help yourself while you’re in here waxing bleakly philosophical with me.”

Stiles sat back down and matched Derek’s stance, his elbows on his knees, leaning forward. “Maybe that’s why I’m here, huh? Because you need someone who will needle you and aggravate you and keep you from giving up?”

Derek snorted out a breath. “Maybe. Or maybe I dreamed you so that I can finally rip your throat out with my teeth, guilt-free.”

Stiles laughed, open-mouthed, his face lighting up. “There’s the Derek I know.” Stiles reached over and put a hand on Derek’s forearm, still smiling. “Try it, okay? Try to wake up. As much as I hate to lose good if slightly depressing company, I worry that you can’t protect yourself like this.”

He patted Derek’s arm and let go to lean back a little. “I’ll concentrate with you, okay? Ready? Go.”

Derek closed his eyes and concentrated on waking up. He wasn’t sure how many seconds or minutes had passed when he opened his eyes to see Stiles staring back at him.

“No good, huh? Well, we’ll try again in a little bit.” Stiles stood and paced again. “Hey, why’d you look at _my_ hand?”

“You said you had more fingers in dreams.”

“Right, but it’s your dream or hallucination or whatever. Why not just look at your own? How many did you have?”

“I don’t know.” Derek’s hands were fisted on his thighs.

“Dude, you lifted my hand with your hand.”

“I didn’t look, okay?”

“Look now.” Stiles’ head tilted as he stared at Derek. His eyes squinted and his eyebrows rose. “Just lift your--”

“Stiles! We’ve established that I’m not awake. I don’t need to. Didn’t--didn’t _you_ notice my hands?”

“I didn’t. Wasn’t thinking about it.”  Stiles sat across from Derek again. “You trust me more than yourself, Derek. You trust my perceptions more than yours,” he whispered in disbelief.

Derek laughed bitterly. “That’s ridiculous, considering that you _are_ me.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Derek almost said it did, but had the feeling he and Stiles would go back and forth forever if they started arguing about it. He held his hand up for Stiles, but didn’t look at it. He wasn’t even sure why he couldn’t.

“Six,” Stiles said. “It’s okay. You don’t have to look.”

Derek fisted his hands again and stared at the floor. Stiles’ voice had sounded too soft, like he was attempting to soothe an upset child.

“Do you smell that?” Stiles asked. “Like feet and mud drying in a hundred-degree heat and . . . pickle juice? What even _is_ that? Why do boys’ locker rooms always smell so . . . unsavory?” He hopped up again, sniffing as if in search of whatever it was that smelled like pickle juice.

Derek hadn’t smelled anything that he was aware of until Stiles mentioned it. Now he smelled exactly what Stiles had described. “Sweaty teenage boys stink.”

“Thanks so much.”

“It’s just a fact. I was one too, you know.”

“But now you’ve outgrown the funk, good for you.” Stiles’ face went from a smirk to a beaming smile. “Oh my god. I’m a figment of your imagination. So everything I am right now is coming from your brain, right?”

“Seems so.” Derek rubbed his temples. “Despite anything I might ever have guessed, it seems so.”

Giggling, Stiles unbuttoned and unzipped his pants enough to grab the waistband of his underwear.

“Stiles, what the--”

Stiles pulled his briefs out and looked down. “Aww,” he said, sounding slightly disappointed. “Looks pretty normal. I guess it’s good that it’s not just a black hole, like you’d never even considered that I had man parts before.”

Derek stared, trying to decide which emotion to express.

“Dude, you’re finally losing that war with your eyebrows, and it’s freaking me out. Let it go--I was kidding. Mostly. But it wouldn’t have hurt my ego to find some sort of freakishly large--”

“Oh my god, would you please shut up?”

Stiles nodded and re-fastened his pants. “It also would have been kind of neat to find two. You know, like having too many fingers? Too many peens. That’s something to work on for the next dream, am I right?” He wiggled his eyebrows and smiled, but sighed and frowned when Derek closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Wow, wouldn’t it be something if you really were dying and the last thing anyone said to you was that it would be nice to have two peens in the next dream? Well, that’d be awful, really. I’m glad that didn’t happen. But it would have been your fault, technically.”

Derek glared at Stiles and then laughed. “I guess it would have been.”

Stiles paced again, and Derek was about to tell him to sit down and stop fidgeting, when he realized that Stiles was acting exactly as he’d expect. _Because it was his dream_.

“Derek, why are we in the high school locker room?”

“No idea. Why?”

“You've brought us to this eye-wateringly fragrant place, but why? When we could be anywhere?”

Derek shrugged. “Lacrosse, basketball, it’s a place we have in common? It’s not like I chose it, it just . . . happened.”

“Then let’s make some other place happen. Some place that doesn’t smell like the sweat socks worn by an armpit.”

“How?”

“Can we just walk outside, maybe? Or you can concentrate on some other place? Stand up and . . . I don’t know. Take my hand and we’ll concentrate.” Stiles held his hand out for Derek.

“I am not holding your hand.” Derek crossed his arms.

“Damn it, Derek, it doesn’t mean we have to go steady. We just have to stay together. You don’t want to end up alone in here, do you?”

Derek raised an eyebrow like he was considering the possibility, but no, he didn’t want to be alone right now. He took Stiles’ hand in his.

“Good. Now click your heels three times . . . just kidding. Stop looking at me like that--it’s your brain, buddy!” Stiles squeezed his hand, even as Derek was trying to pull his free. “Just think about someplace nice. Someplace outside, maybe, in the sunshine, the smell of grass--”

Derek gasped as a breeze buffeted his face. He stood in the middle of the lacrosse field, the smell of grass and warm sunshine almost overwhelmingly pleasant. His hand was empty.

“Stiles?” he said. “Stiles!” It came out like a shout, and that made his heartbeat speed up, almost inducing a panic. “St--” Something hard hit him in the back of the head. He spun as he reached up to rub the spot.

Stiles held a crosse, and had obviously just thrown the ball that hit Derek. He giggled.

“Gotcha!”

Derek tried not to smile at how much like a little kid Stiles could really be sometimes. He walked toward Stiles, who seemed to have dozens of balls on the ground around him, and seemed like he meant to practice throw every one. “You could hurt somebody that way, you know.”

“It’s a dream, Derek. I could saw your head off and use it as a bowling ball, and you’d be just fine.”

“That’s a lovely thought.”

“ _Yours_. Hey! We can probably fly, can’t we? Anything can happen in dreams, right? Do that--imagine us flying.” Stiles dropped the crosse, held his arms out to his sides and closed his eyes.

After a minute or so, he opened one eye and flapped his arms a little. “Are you concentrating, because  . . . oh, stop scowling. It was a good idea. We jumped from a locker room to the lacrosse field. Why couldn’t we fly or have . . . _oh my god_ , Derek. _Superpowers_. Give us superpowers!”

“Isn’t flight a superpower?” Derek put his hands on his hips, trying not to smile as he wondered if he actually _could_ make them fly.

“Not if you’re a bird. _Ha_.” He flapped his arms again. “Come on, try? For old Stiles? I know you have superpower-like abilities, but I don't. _Come on, please?_ ”

Derek sighed and closed his eyes, concentrating on making Stiles fly. What the hell--it wasn’t as if he had anything else to do. When he felt the stirrings of a headache, he opened his eyes. Stiles stood, leaning on his crosse, smirking.

“I guess you’re not imaginative enough. Too grounded, Derek, that is so you. If we were in my dream together, we’d be flying and shooting flames out of our eyeballs and seeing through things with x-ray vision, and we’d have the strength of like a hundred--a _thousand_ \--men.”

“And a dozen dicks, I’m sure. I can’t believe you left that off the list.”

“Only if I could imagine us like Shiva, with a hand for each one. Pretty much useless otherwise.”

Derek laughed and rubbed his hand over his eyes. “Good point.”

“You know, it’s almost touching that you know me so well and are so aware of my great and enduring fondness for masturbation.” Stiles punched him playfully on the arm.

Crossing his arms again, Derek took a deep breath in through his nostrils. “The only thing preventing me from slapping my hands over my ears is the fact that it would make me look twelve years old.”

“Do you understand how funny it is to think you’d cover your ears to keep from hearing what I say in your own dream?” Stiles winked. “You do a pretty good me, actually. I’m impressed.”

“I’m appalled.” Derek realized he felt better than he had in a while, probably since coming back to Beacon Hills, but he didn’t say that out loud.

Stiles threw some balls in no particular direction, grunting with each hard swing of the crosse. When he’d finished, panting, he smiled happily at Derek, as if he’d done something truly remarkable. Derek was about to ask about Stiles’ recent dreams when he noticed the shadows they cast didn’t seem as sharp or black as before. He looked up at the sky. “Getting dark.”

Stiles rubbed the center of his chest. “I noticed. Like a storm’s coming, though. Too fast for sundown.” He grunted and rubbed harder. “Wow, do you feel that?”

“Feel what?” Derek put his hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “Are you having a panic attack?”

“No. Hurts.”

Derek gasped as the pain hit him like a knife to the center of his chest. He dropped to his knees, pulling Stiles with him because of the tightened grip he had on Stiles’ shoulder.

“Take deep breaths, Derek. It’s okay.”

The sky darkened even more, the pain worsening with each bit of light that fled. Stiles pitched forward against him, his chin resting on Derek’s shoulder. “Breathe . . . I think you’re waking up. Fight for it, Derek.”

He tried, he really did. He tried to embrace the pain rather than wishing for a place to hide from it. And it did get worse. He felt Stiles slumping in his arms, and then the light was back and the pain, gone.

“Stiles?” He stood, no longer on the field. Derek turned, that panicked feeling returning because he didn’t know where Stiles was again. “Stiles, don’t throw anything at me this time, just tell me where you--”

Derek’s back stiffened as he turned to see the burned out shell of his family home.


	2. Give it a Rest, Sisyphus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read the tags and heed the warnings. This chapter has mentions of Kate, abuse, the Hale fire and things that could trigger some people.

The house looked perfect, at least on the outside. Derek took a few steps forward, intent on seeing the inside. Maybe he’d open the door and his family would be there, sitting down to dinner at their large dining room table, or scattered around the family room reading, watching television or playing board games.

“Derek.” Stiles’ voice came from behind him, then Stiles stepped up next to him, soundlessly. “You flinched a little. This is awesome. I could _never_ sneak up on you in real life.”

“Because I can always smell you coming.” He took another step.

“Yes, me and my teenage funk. Thanks for bringing that up again, by the way.” Stiles put a hand on his arm to stop him from the next step. “Derek, don’t.”

“Why not?” Derek turned to look him in the eyes.

“You’re not ready for this. Not yet.” He grabbed Derek’s wrist and started pulling him away from the house.

”Not ready? Nothing’s going to shock me, Stiles, especially if everything’s the same.”

”You can’t go in there, all right! Just trust me right now. Take us somewhere else. Somewhere pleasant.”

“Stiles--”

“Jesus, _I’ll_ do it. Let’s go out to where you like to run during full moons. Come on, think it with me.”

Stiles’ hand was so insistent on his wrist, the trembling in his fingers so pronounced, that Derek gave in. And in seconds they were on their backs in the foot-tall grass of a field, looking up at the clouds floating in an impossibly blue sky.

“Aw, see, how much better is _this_? Let’s find stuff in the clouds. Look,” he said, pointing at a cigar-shaped cloud. “A dick. And that one looks like boobs.”

Derek sighed, but couldn’t help smiling. “You’re so predictable, it’s pathetic.”

“Then you find something, Mr. Wiseguy.”

Derek looked around, trying to focus on the shapes and not the sense that he was forgetting something that gnawed at the back of his brain. The sense that he should go back and find the house. “That one looks like--”

“A ball sac?”

“If that’s what your balls look like, you should see a specialist.”

“What were _you_ gonna say?”

“I--I don’t even remember now. But it wasn't that." Derek chuckled. "God, you're frustrating.”

Stiles laughed. “Hey, there’s another--”

“If you say dick, I really will knock you out. It’s a dream. You’ll recover”

“Hmm. Then I guess it’s a . . . pogo stick.” Stiles turned his head to look at Derek and waited for Derek to look back at him. “A pogo stick . . . .”

Derek raised his eyebrows and tilted his head as if to say _don’t do it_.

“. . . shaped like a dick.”

Stiles rolled away from Derek as Derek growled and lunged for him, just catching the hem of his hoodie. Stiles could run like a gazelle when he felt threatened and chased, but any other time he acted as if he might die if he had to take another step. He ran a little faster than that now, but not much. Stiles barked laughter with his mouth open, his whole body taking part in it. He ran through the grass with Derek close behind him.

“No fair running like a werewolf when I'm only human! Totally no fair!”

“I’m actually not, dumbass. An old man with arthritis in his knees could catch _you_.” He lunged forward and tackled Stiles, sending them both sprawling. Stiles bounced away from him and disappeared into the tall grass as if he turned to mist, not even displacing anything when he landed.

“Stiles?” Derek rubbed his chest to get rid of he pinch he felt there. “Answer me! I didn’t mean to shove you so hard.” The pinch in his chest turned to an ache. He closed his eyes to draw a breath, because the ache was turning into a deep burning pain.

When he opened his eyes, the house stood before him again. He looked around for Stiles, then looked back at the house to find Stiles already on the porch, looking back at him, rubbing the center of his chest.

Stiles came down the steps. “You can feel that, huh? Hurt pretty bad for a minute, but now it’s fading.”

“Yeah.” It _was_ fading. And the urge to go into the house was growing. He pushed past Stiles and made it onto the first step before Stiles grabbed his arm.

“Derek, _don’t_. You don’t need to go in there.”

“Again, Stiles, why not?”

“I’m afraid you won’t come back out.” Stiles hurried to the step above Derek and tried to push him back down. “You’ll go inside, and then you’ll die. In real life.”

“I just really need to see. I won’t even go in, so I'm not going to _die_.”

“You _will_! Because this, this whole thing is Kate. She did this, and now she’s hurt you again, and you’re not ready to face any of it and come out on top. It’ll suck you in, and you’ll be gone.” Stiles put a firm hand on Derek’s shoulder, though he couldn’t budge Derek from the step.

Derek sighed, a shiver going through him at the mention of Kate. “Just a glance in the door. I . . . I need to see it. I just do. Why shouldn’t I at least look?"

“Because _why_? You know what it looks like in there.”

“Maybe it’s different in this dream.”

“It’s not.”

“It could be.” Derek felt himself getting irritated in the way he sometimes did with Stiles, especially, he had to admit, when it turned out Stiles was right.

“I’m telling you it’s not.”

Derek pulled his arm from Stiles’ grasp and stepped down onto the ground. “Okay, Stiles. I’ll bite.” He rolled his eyes at Stiles’ little laugh at his phrasing. “How do _you_ have this amazing knowledge of what’s going in _my_ dream? Huh? How do you know it’s not different in there?”

Stiles’ smile faded, and he looked as serious as Derek had ever seen him. “Because you won’t let it be.” He moved toward Derek so they were almost toe to toe. “You won’t allow yourself that even in a dream.”

Derek worked his jaw, his mind telling him to open his mouth and argue, but he had no words to use against what Stiles said. Finally, he managed a hoarse whisper. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know, from here you can almost fool yourself.” Stiles tilted his head with a determined look on his face. “The whole front façade’s intact, almost. If not for that upper left corner . . . it might just look like a house that’s fallen into disrepair. Wouldn’t be a bad place to squat and get out of the weather . . . you might think.”

Stiles frowned, his voice angry. “Until you realize that most of what’s left _is only_  the front façade. And you _lived_ here, Derek. Do you have any idea how fucked up that is?”

Derek stared Stiles down, completely at a loss for how to deal with him.

“You lived here where your family died, denying yourself any type of comfort like a clean room or a fresh mattress, a _roof_ , specifically to torture yourself during every waking moment. Because you didn’t think you deserved anything better. You still don’t, not really.”

Derek let out a long, slow breath and turned his back to Stiles, looking into the trees and the green of the Preserve.

“Deny all you want, Derek. But living here as you did was the most masochistic thing I hope to ever see in my lifetime. That’s why even in this dream the home is char and ash and the stink of death. Because you still haven’t stopped blaming yourself for it.”

Derek ground his teeth together. “Why should I, when it’s _my fault!_ ”

“It’s your fault.”

“ _Yes_.”

“You killed your family. It’s your fault they burned to death.”

Derek couldn’t speak now, but nodded his head, his fangs pricking at his lips, his heart pounding. He focused on the trees and tried to smell the freshness of the grass and the leaves, but the acrid scent of smoke threatened to choke him.

“Let’s imagine something together, Derek.”

Derek could hear Stiles pacing back and forth on the porch.

“How old were you when Kate abused you?”

“She didn’t--”

“God damn it, she _did_. You were just a kid!”

Derek shook his head. He should have known better, he should have known!

“When she first touched you, Derek, what were you? Fourteen? Fifteen? Imagine Cora at that age, and a man as old as Kate coming on to her.”

Derek spun. “Stiles. Don’t talk about Cora.”

“What, it’s a fair question. A much older man sleeps with Cora when she’s fourteen. She thinks she’s in love with him. She tells him things while he’s fucking her. She--”

“ _Stiles_!”

“He takes her virginity, tells her he loves her, flatters her, leads her on, then burns down the house with almost everyone in it. It’s Cora’s fault, right? After all, she _consented_. She was old enough to get _fucked_ , so she should have _known_ better. Right?”

Derek was barely holding back the wolf now. He wanted to tackle Stiles to the ground and make him it take it all back, make it so that he’d never said it in the first place.

"If you wouldn’t pile the blame onto Cora or Laura or maybe a brother or _anyone else_ for doing the exact same things you did, how can you still keep blaming yourself? I mean, it’s even kind of arrogant, isn’t it? Of course they couldn’t have known, but you’re somehow better, more special, and so you should have this great insight even so young?”

Stiles laughed and raked his fingers through his hair. “Jesus, Derek. You’re like a Greek myth. I mean, you look like a damn Greek god, but inside you're all Greek _tragedy_ or something. You're . . . you're like Sisyphus, except no one has condemned you but _you_. People keep trying to take the boulder away from you so you can rest, but you insist on keeping it and rolling it up and up that hill.”

Derek’s hands formed into fists. He wasn’t going to hit Stiles, but he wanted to. “Stiles, you can’t know . . . you can’t . . . .”

“Can’t know what it’s like to feel responsible for people’s deaths? For hurting the people I care about? Really? Because I do know all about that, buddy. Scott told you about what I did--pushing that sword deeper into him. Twisting it. _Twisting_ it, Derek. I was right there, could feel it in my hand and feel his breath on my face when he cried out in pain. And I couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it. That’s my fault. The deputies that died, the people at the hospital . . . Allison . . . _my_ fault.”

“No. Those weren’t your fault, Stiles. The nogitsune used you. There was nothing you could do.” Derek’s voice was soft. He felt like he almost didn’t have enough breath to speak, because he knew what Stiles was doing.

“So I get a pass, but you don’t? No, Derek, we were both used. Your family were dead before you ever even fantasized about fucking Kate. You were just a pawn on her chessboard. If it hadn’t happened the way it did, if you’d have somehow magically known that she was a psychopath hellbent on murder and managed to avoid her seductive wiles, they’d have still died. _You did not do this._ ” Stiles gestured at the front of the house. “You are not to blame.”

Derek felt his breath hitch. “You don’t know--”

“I do!” Stiles bounded off the porch and stopped directly in front of Derek. “God damn it, Derek. Are you forgetting that this is your dream? Everything I’m saying? Coming from _your head_. So I know it’s not your fault.”

He stepped to Derek’s side, while Derek took deep panting breaths trying to stay in control.

“Which means that _you_ know it’s not your fault. Deep down, Derek, you know it.” Stiles’ voice shook. “But admitting that to yourself means admitting that you were taken advantage of. Admitting she violated you. She hurt you. _You were abused._ And you’d rather keep hurting and punishing yourself than have to admit that. But it’s time, now. Time to stop.”

A crumbling piece of the chimney broke loose and fell to the ground. One of the porch supports hitched sideways and crumbled. Derek gasped for breath and didn’t think he’d be able to draw one, until Stiles’ hand flattened against his chest.

“That’s it. She did this. She hurt you. And we have no idea what she’s up to now. But the only thing you have to fight with, Derek, is the truth. Accept it.”

The front wall of the third story swayed in the light breeze that kicked up and collapsed onto the roof of the porch. Derek’s throat burned as he coughed smoke.

Stiles patted his chest, then moved behind him, a strong hand on his shoulder. “That’s it. I know it hurts. But you can’t rebuild anything with that wreckage standing in the way.”

The porch collapsed. Derek fell to his knees, Stiles’ hand never leaving his shoulder. Stiles’ hand, like the one on his shoulder when he’d knelt next to Boyd’s body in the loft. Stiles’ unwavering hand.

“ _No_.” Derek’s voice had gone deep, a growl of protest, not about the house falling down, not about Stiles’ hand on his shoulder or his encouragement to face the truth. He didn’t know what he said _no_ to. Maybe what his life had been, the choices he'd made. Maybe he said it to Kate. _No. Nonono._

Hands squeezed both of his shoulders now, and thanks to that Derek managed to stay up on his knees. His whimper became a whine, his whine a roar, his roar a pained howl that rattled what was left of his family home, laying it flat as if an unseen hand had slapped it down.

When Derek’s howl finally choked off, he raked in a breath and wailed until he had no air left. Stiles’ hands never left his shoulders, but they loosened enough to let him lean back and fall onto his butt, his legs in front of him, bent slightly at the knees. He slumped forward, panting. He could feel Stiles lower himself to his knees directly behind him.

“Now maybe you can build something new,” Stiles whispered, squeezing his shoulders.

Derek didn't answer.

“Has anyone . . . Derek, has anyone ever just . . . .”

The hands started to lift off his shoulders. Derek wanted to grab them and keep them there, but Stiles sounded uncomfortable or nervous, so Derek didn't move. Then the hands lit on his shoulders again before sliding down to his chest. Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek’s neck, his cheek pressed against Derek’s ear, and hugged him tightly from behind.

Derek reached up and lay his hand on Stiles’ forearm, at a loss for how else to acknowledge this. Stiles grabbed his hand and hung on. They stayed like that a long time, until Stiles broke the silence with a whisper.

“You can do it now, Derek. You can look inside, if you really want to.” Stiles squeezed Derek’s hand.

“What?” And in the space of a blink, the house was whole again. It was intact and perfect, just like it was before the fire. Wait . . . it was _perfect_. And it hadn’t been. He’d been supposed to help Peter scrape and paint the windowsills for at least a month, but every time he was supposed to do it, he ended up being somewhere with his basketball teammates or . . . Kate.

None of the paint peeled now. Everything looked freshly painted and clean. The windows shone, as if Laura had just washed them all. That task always fell to her because she was a stickler for it, and nobody could do it as good as she did, with no streaks.

His mother had taken the wooden patio furniture into town to be refinished not long before the fire, and removed the rest for Peter to pressure wash the porch. His mom said it was starting to look grubby, and that wouldn't do. So the porch would have been empty on that last day. But two large Adirondack chairs bookended the porch, with a wicker table and a few chairs around it off to one side of the door. They all looked brand new, even though they'd actually been down to two wicker chairs by the end. Laura and Peter had been wrestling and Peter, half-transformed, weighed too much when bodyslammed onto one. His mother had made Laura sweep up the scraps and make Peter his favorite pie by way of apology. Even though everyone knew he’d provoked her and then _let_ her get the best of him, just to see what would happen.

“So Peter always was a bit of a dick," Stiles said.

Derek gasped. He’d had no idea he’d said all that out loud. “Yeah. Always was. But . . . not the same as now. I miss him, the way he was. I miss them all.”

“I know. Do you want to go in? Or just look through a window, maybe that would be safer . . . in case.” Stiles let go. Derek missed the warmth against his back instantly, but Stiles appeared in front of him, taking both Derek’s hands in his and pulling him to his feet.

If Derek went in or even just looked in a window, he knew what he’d see. Perfection. An idealized version of his home. He wouldn’t see the long scratch down the side of the coffee table where Cora had taken her first steps and hung on, claws out, even as she stumbled backward and fell. There’d be no stain hidden under an easy chair, where Garrett had the bright idea to juggle wine bottles, and Peter had the brighter idea to poke him in the ribs while two were in the air.

There’d be no indentation in the plaster of the hallway where his father had smashed his elbow into the wall when his mother had thrown him a surprise birthday party. Derek still didn’t know if that flinch had been for show to make his kids happy or if he’d actually been that startled.

All those imperfections that marred their bustling, lived-in house would be gone if he looked, and he wanted to keep them. Every last one.

“Derek?”

“I don’t need to see, Stiles. Not anymore.”

Stiles smiled as if that was what he’d been waiting for. “Come on, then. I want to take full advantage of this _anything can happen_ dream stuff.” He pulled Derek by the hand through the trees, deeper into the Preserve. 

“Where are we going?” Derek let Stiles pull him along, content to hold onto him and make sure they stayed together.

“I wanna see my mom.”

Derek stopped as if he’d hit a wall, nearly pulling Stiles, who hadn’t expected to stop, off his feet. “Stiles . . . I’m sorry, but we _can’t_. I would if I could, but . . . you keep pointing out that this is all in my head, that you’re _me . . ._ and I have no idea what your mother even looks like.”

Stiles smiled sadly. “I know. But you want me to have this, or we wouldn't be doing it." He tapped Derek's temple, then let his fingers trail down Derek's cheek. "We’ll make do.”

Derek breathed, and they appeared in Stiles’ backyard. The silhouette of a woman stood in the kitchen window, where Derek knew the sink was. The light behind her glowed softly, and the Sheriff walked up to her, stopping to kiss her neck and embrace her before he moved away.

Stiles still clutched Derek’s hand. “Hi, Mom,” he whispered. Derek squeezed, because it seemed like the best thing he could do.


	3. Hurry Up, Alice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like the next one is the end. I picked kind of short one on which to try out chapters, but it's been fun and interesting anyway. :)

They stood there, Derek squeezing Stiles’ hand, for what felt like an hour. Derek watched Stiles watch the silhouette of his mother with a little smile on his face. Her features never became clear. They couldn’t, since Derek had no idea what she looked like. He imagined Stiles looked a lot like his mom, more like her than his dad. He guessed she probably had beauty marks and pale skin, because Stiles didn’t seem to have inherited those things from his father.

It didn’t feel awkward to hold Stiles’ hand this way, he realized. It should have. It’s not like it was something they’d ever done unless one needed to pull the other out of harm’s way or help the other up. They didn’t do it just for support, like they were doing now.

Of course, Stiles had never hugged him like that, either. And he hadn’t known he needed it until it happened.

Finally, Stiles turned to Derek and smiled. His eyes were wet, but not like when he’d confronted Jennifer in Derek’s loft asking about his dad. This was just a shine to them, and his eyes looked content, not terrified.

“Let’s go,” Stiles said. He squeezed Derek’s hand and released it, and headed for the street.

Derek walked beside him down the center of the street, occasionally feeling Stiles’ shoulder bump his. They always did that, pulled toward each other whether they were standing or moving. He’d never really questioned it before, but now it seemed so apparent. They were drawn together by a force he didn’t understand, but that somehow made _sense_ in a way nothing else in his life did.

“That was nice,” Stiles said after they’d gone at least half a mile or so with no clear destination in mind. “Thank you for that.”

Derek nodded and shrugged, not sure he’d had anything to do with it. At least consciously.

They walked silently a little while longer, shoulders bumping from time to time, until Derek took a deep breath and spoke. “I’m sorry I didn’t know what your mother looked like, so you could have, you know, actually seen her. You can . . . you can talk about her, if you want.”

Stiles beamed at him, and only then did Derek realize the complete irrationality in what he’d just said.

“That’s sweet, Derek. And I mean that sincerely. Apologizing for not knowing what my mother looks like to be able to let me, a figment of your dream, see her. And I suppose now you even feel a little bad that I never told you any stories about my mom that I could now recycle and tell back to you.”

“Yeah . . . I do, a little.”

“I could make something up, and you could pretend. Like I could tell you how she loved to make pancakes on the weekends, and how Dad and I only pretended to love them. I mean, we loved that she wanted to make us pancakes, but they were heavy and tough and would like sit in your gut for hours afterwards. She had to know this, but she just kept making them.” Stiles huffed out a little laugh. “And we just kept eating them and smiling.”

Was it completely psychotic to be loving the story, even though this Stiles wasn’t real and it was his own mind making it up? It was enough to give him a headache. His head _was_ starting to hurt, in fact. He rubbed one of his temples. But couldn’t he pretend that this was an actual moment they were sharing, and that Stiles’ sad little smile was genuine?

“Laura could cook anything on a stovetop,” he said, smiling at the memory. “But she couldn’t bake to save her life, even though she loved the idea of it. Once, she forget to put eggs in a cake until it had been in the oven for a bit. Instead of tossing it out and starting over, because she’s the most stubborn person I’ve ever known, she pulled it out, beat the eggs in a bowl and tried to stir them in, right there in the pan.” He laughed and shrugged. “Maybe it would have worked if the cake hadn’t already started to bake around the edges. We ate it and smiled, too, even though it was like sweet Styrofoam garnished with rubbery bits of egg.”

Stiles hissed in through his teeth. “Wow. I guess she never took home ec, huh?”

“Sadly enough, she did. She loved baking, but didn’t have the patience or something. Everything was either missing something, underbaked or overbaked, overbeaten, under-mixed . . . and the one year she decided to make homemade Christmas fudge, well, she never brought that up again. It ended up tasty poured over ice cream, at least after she stopped burning the syrup. She just didn't have the knack. But she could cook steak and potatoes so good they’d make a grown man cry.”

“You miss her.”

Derek nodded, not sure what to say to something so obvious.

“I mean, of everyone, you probably miss her the most.”

“Yeah. We were the closest in age, did a lot of things together, and then . . . after the fire, you know, it was just us. We were close. Always.”

They listened to the sound of Derek’s dream-Beacon Hills, which apparently contained almost no people. There were no traffic sounds, murmuring of crowds or car doors. It was like a ghost town, except there were lights on and figures moving on the other sides of windows, much like Stiles’s parents had appeared.

It was peaceful while it lasted.

“So.” Stiles bumped his shoulder on purpose this time. “I guess we should probably start trying to figure out what’s going on, right? Why Kate, why now, what’s happening to your actual body while you’re here dicking around with me, that sort of thing. I know neither of us really wants to go down that particular rabbit hole into the Wonderland that is Argent and in-general hunter psychopathy, but I think we have to.”

“Yeah.” Derek rubbed his temple again, the headache flaring. A pain was starting to bloom in the center of his chest, too. He tried to ignore it.

“Gettin’ to your brain, Derek?”

“A bit.” He couldn’t ignore the pain in his chest now. He rubbed it, then coughed, the pain spreading out across his chest from the center, making it hard to breathe. He dropped to his knees, dimly aware of Stiles’ hands on his arms, keeping him from toppling over.

“Are you waking up, Derek? _Derek?_ ” Stiles groaned in pain and grabbed his own chest. "Fight, Derek!"

Derek felt the floor against his back, but couldn’t peel his eyes open. He heard and felt himself groan, followed by voices speaking Spanish. They were too far away for him to make out the words. That, or they were right next to him and he just wasn’t focused enough to follow. He tried to zone in on the words and ignore the pain, make his eyes focus just enough to see faces.

“Está despertando,” a voice said, sounding panicked. Then a blurry face appeared over his, a familiar face. “Duerme, lobo.”

Derek felt what he thought was a needle in his neck, and everything blurred again, until he opened his eyes to find Stiles looking down at him.

“Derek? Did you wake up? Do you know where you are?”

Derek grabbed Stiles' arms and hung on, so grateful that he hadn’t entered a different dream. He wasn’t sure what he’d have done if Stiles had been gone. “The woman . . . the one who held me and Peter captive when we thought they were looking for Cora. Someone said I was waking up, and she drugged me to put me back to sleep.”

“Did you see Kate?”

“No, just that woman, and another man’s voice, all in Spanish. I think I might be back in South America, or Mexico.”

“Do you have any idea _why_?”

Derek shook his head, then gripped the hand Stiles offered to help pull him up. He got as far as sitting up when he realized they were back in the field where they’d looked at clouds earlier, not the street where they’d been when he’d collapsed. He didn’t try to stand. “Let’s just sit here a while?”

Stiles nodded and sat next to Derek, close enough that their shoulders touched. There were no longer any clouds for Stiles to start pointing at and calling dicks. The full moon kept the night from being too dark, but felt strange and hollow in the dream compared to real life. It felt cold. Derek checked himself for the urge to turn, but he didn’t feel the need to run or break out of his skin like he should on a full moon. _Dream._

“You speak Spanish,” Stiles said, as if it were a revelation. He plucked a couple long blades of grass and began twisting them together.

Derek stared at Stiles until he looked back. “Oui,” he answered.

“I know the difference between French and Spanish, thank you. And look, I can even speak British, you _arsehole_.” He giggled and elbowed Derek, who gently shoved back.

Stiles leaned against Derek with a little push. “Wanker. _Twat_ ,” he said, using the British pronunciation of the word that Derek thought made it rhyme with _hat_. “The British is strong with me,” Stiles said in a serious voice.

“Keep calling me names, and . . . your throat, rip it out, I will.” Derek tried not to smile.

“Dude!” Stiles laughed and practically threw himself over. “Oh my god. You speak _Star Wars_.” Stiles eyes and mouth went wide as he laughed again, then he repeated it with a not terrible Yoda voice impersonation. “Say it like that! Come on, Derek, do it!”

“I can’t do _the voice_.” Derek rubbed his hand over his forehead, wishing his face didn’t feel so warm and glad it was dark enough that his blush at Stiles’ reaction probably wouldn’t show.

“That’s okay. Just the fact that you actually _Star Wars_ ed me. Wow. Scott’s been my best friend forever, and I haven’t even gotten him to watch the damn thing yet.”

“He’ll love it when he sees it. The first three were great.”

Stiles stared at him open-mouthed for several moments. “You totally have them on DVD, don’t you?”

Derek nodded. “The original versions.” Their eyes met. “Han shot first!” they said at the same time, sending Stiles backwards in a giggling fit, and making Derek actually laugh. His face felt stiff and heavy as he did so, like he hadn’t laughed like that in years. Maybe he hadn’t.

Stiles stayed down, saying, “You’re actually cool. Who knew.”

Derek lay on his back next to Stiles, looking up at the moon. “Who. Knew.” He sighed, and noticed he couldn’t see any stars. He wished his dreaming brain could have handled such a detail, so he could point out the constellations to Stiles the way he used to do with Laura.

“It really is cool that you speak Spanish. And _Star Wars_. Like . . . you had this whole life before I knew you.” Stiles looked at Derek, then shook his head. “I know, it sounds strange, but you keep so much to yourself and are so serious all the time, it’s hard to imagine you watching movies or doing things . . . normal people do.”

Derek’s eyebrows shot up. “I’m abnormal, then?”

“You’re a _werewolf_ who’s, well, been through some stuff. Serious stuff. It’s easy to think there’d be no room in there for _Star Wars_ or high school Spanish, you know?”

Derek knew what Stiles meant. “I played basketball in high school, had an incredible crush on two different teachers--Mr. Leighton and Miss Allen, fell asleep in government at least once a month and got detention once for having cigarettes in my locker. More normal for you?”

“Cigarettes?”

Derek shrugged. “Not like they could hurt me. Ironically, I’d decided to throw them away after school, but got caught with them last period. They were nasty.”

Stiles rolled onto his side to face Derek, leaning on his elbow with his head in his hand. “I smoked once in the 8th grade. Hyperactivity, Coke and nicotine? Not a calming combo.”

Derek rolled onto his side, matching Stiles and bringing them face to face. “Did that really happen?”

“I just said--”

“I mean, did you mention that to me or in front of me at some point, or is my mind making this up . . . like with your mom’s pancakes.”

Stiles shrugged, his little smile still in place. “Could be true. Sounds right, doesn’t it? Hey, say something in Spanish.”

“No.” Derek grinned. “How was that?”

“Hardy ho _ha_. Come on, I’m serious. I want hear you speak it.”

Derek sighed. Before he could think too hard about what to say, it came out: “Aprecio su amistad.” _I appreciate your friendship._

“Sounds _nice_. Very nice.” Stiles lowered his arm and stretched it out above his head, then rested his cheek on his bicep. Derek did the same, finding his new willingness to be this close to Stiles and keep looking him in the eye both wonderful and unsettling.

Stiles laughed softly. “There’s something about a guy speaking a different language, especially when that guy isn’t known for speaking that much _English_ ever . . . whoo. Sexy. You could charm the pants right off somebody. If you wanted to.”

Derek smiled, going with it. What was the harm. It was his dream, wasn’t it? No one had to know that he didn’t hesitate before he launched into a soliloquy that involved more words than he’d probably used with another living person in the last few years. In careful Spanish, he talked about Laura and how she’d once whipped back the shower curtain, snapped a few pictures and threatened to pin them to the bulletin board at school if he didn’t stop teasing her about the boy she had a crush on. He remembered how the first picture was just him, naked, washing his hair, but the next three shots were him, horrified, launching himself after her and trying to preserve his dignity by grabbing a towel, and ending up with one foot in the toilet. She’d turned the camera over to him before she could even retrieve the pictures, satisfied that he now knew she’d go to any lengths to get revenge if she felt it was justified.

He knew she couldn’t really show the pictures to anyone, not with his extra-wide eyes reflecting extra-bright glares as he went after her. Also, his mother would have killed Laura for doing something so embarrassing to her little brother. That probably made him feel safer than the eyeshine.

He talked about how he’d talked to Peter in the nursing home, just like this sometimes, talking and talking and not knowing if he’d even been heard. He talked about how frustrating that was at first, and then how comforting it was to feel like he could say whatever was on his mind without fear of criticism or judgement. Like now.

Derek talked for a long time, pleased at how much Spanish he actually remembered when he hadn’t had much cause to really speak it in so long. He talked about dropping Cora when she was a baby and freaking out with guilt even knowing she’d be fine, about how he’d genuinely hurt his mother once by angrily wishing he’d been born human. He hadn’t really meant it, but he was angry about all the things they had to be so careful about, like photographs and making plans around the full moon, and worries about loving someone who would never understand what he was. He told Stiles how he regretted most of the choices he’d made in his life, and how unfair it was that the child-Derek had screwed things up so badly for the man he would become.

Derek gasped. He hadn’t even realized he’d felt that way until he said it aloud. Stiles looked on thoughtfully, and Derek was grateful that he simply kept listening. Derek swallowed around the words, took a deep breath, and finally moved a little closer to Stiles, wanting this more than he thought he had a right to, surprised by the blunt force of the feeling.

When he had his voice back, he spoke softly and looked at Stiles’ lips. “Bésame.” _Kiss me._ Derek expected Stiles to say something clever about how he sounded, or how he’d talked for so long. Maybe he’d flirt more or make a move on Derek. And Derek would accept it. He saw no good reason not to give in to something that seemed like it could only be good and pleasant and right.

Stiles put his hand on Derek’s cheek and looked at him for several seconds. Then he moved forward. Derek parted his lips, his heart flip-flopping a little at this really happening.

“Okay,” Stiles said, as if he’d known what Derek said, as if he’d heard _kiss me_. But Stiles shifted just before their lips met. He pressed a long, soft kiss to Derek’s forehead.

Derek’s eyes closed. He inhaled sharply through his nose, and fought not to whimper when Stiles’ hand stroked his cheek and he moved back. His hand stayed lightly on Derek’s face.

Stiles’ voice was as soft as Derek’s had been. “How many times have you heard me complaining about my classes to Scott, or bitching about finals in this class or that. You have to know I’ve taken two years of high school Spanish, and a college-level conversational class for extra credit. You knew this, Derek, whether you remembered that you did or not.”

“So you understood everything I said?”

“No. A lot of it, though. Laura sounds evil but wonderful, and I think I would have loved her. I never caught exactly why she snapped surprise nudes of you, but I approve of her plan nonetheless.”

Derek snorted. “You either would have been best friends or bitter enemies. And sometimes, with Laura, you couldn't always tell the difference.”

“Also, I’m sure your mom understood and forgave you quickly, and whatever you said about the decisions you made as a kid . . . yeah, got to forgive yourself your mistakes, _especially_ when you’re a kid.” Stiles cleared his throat and smiled. “I got that last part, loud and clear, though.”

“Then why didn’t you kiss me?” Derek whispered.

“I just did.”

 _"En la boca_."  _On the mouth_. "Why didn’t my Spanish, as you’d said, charm your pants off?”

Stiles leaned in again and pressed another kiss to Derek’s forehead. He held his lips there for a moment, letting Derek drink in the scent of him, so close and warm and comforting.

Stiles’ hand slipped to the back of Derek’s neck to squeeze before he leaned back to look Derek in the eyes. “Because right now, Derek, that’s just not what you need.”


	4. Wake Up, Derek

Stiles found Derek’s hand in the grass and laced their fingers together, then rested their joined hands between their stomachs.

Derek felt like he was floating, light and airy, his forehead tingling a little. Then reality came crashing back.

“If I were awake, this . . . wouldn’t have happened.”

“No?”

“He--you--Stiles would never have done that.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

Derek shook his head and tried to pull his hand away, but Stiles held it firm.

“You also didn’t expect me to be there for you when Boyd was killed. You didn’t think I’d rush over to _you_ and put my hand on your shoulder, and stand there to see what you needed. You didn’t think anybody would, Derek, because you didn’t think you deserved it.”

Derek managed to pull his hand free and jump to his feet, tempted to start walking just to get away from more mentions of Boyd and the pain they caused him.

“But I did. I believed you deserved it, and I was there.” Stiles stepped in front of him and put his hand on Derek’s neck again, kneading gently. It was a warm, welcome weight that made Derek feel instantly grounded and less ready to bolt.

Stiles stepped a little closer. “So what do you really know about what I’d do? Hmm?”

Derek had no answer.

Stiles nodded as if to say _thought so_. He dropped his hand to Derek’s shoulder and squeezed. “Now, we should talk about what happened. It's occurred to me that if you’re not in the United States, and you’re being drugged so you’ll stay out, we don’t really know how long you’ve been here, with me. How long you’ve been missing from Beacon Hills.”

Derek nodded. “Could be hours, days . . . .”

“If it’s more than hours, then I’m sure Scott and I know about it. Peter should be aware, too. So I’m sure we’re coming for you, no matter where you are.”

“You can’t know that.” Derek put his hand on Stiles forearm, though whether to touch Stiles or keep Stiles’ hand on his shoulder, he didn’t know.

“I _can_. You looked for me, non-stop for days. Scott told me. Do you think I won’t be looking for you now? I know I am. We’re on our way to you, Derek. We have to be. You need to know that.”

Derek felt that airy feeling come back, with a dull ache behind his eyes and in his chest this time. He nodded.

“I mean it, Derek. We’re coming.” He leaned in so that their faces were so close, Derek almost couldn’t focus on him. “We always come back for each other. We will always find each other. That’s what we _do_.”

Derek sighed. “I didn’t find you, Stiles. You came to us at the loft, remember?”

“Just a detail. You looked and you didn’t give up, and if I hadn’t come to you, you would have found me. I know this instinctively the way I know where to put my hand when I wake up with a boner.”

Derek stared for a moment, then huffed out a breath. “Everything ends up as a sexual metaphor with you. It’s amazing.”

He squeezed Derek’s shoulder again. “Not so amazing. I’m seventeen. My _life_ is a sexual metaphor.” Stiles smiled

Derek looked into Stiles’ eyes, his own enhanced vision letting him clearly see the amber irises aimed so intently at him even in the low light of nighttime. He slid his hand up Stiles’ arm to his shoulder.

“I figured, after the nogitsune, you’d be different than this. That you’d be suffering. Subdued.” It was Derek’s turn to gently knead Stiles’ shoulder. “Wounded.”

Stiles tilted his head and spoke softly. “This is _your_ dream, Derek. Apparently, you don’t want me to be."

Derek didn’t. But he suspected the real Stiles, the one he hadn’t even gotten to say _hello_ to since he’d been back, was wounded and suffering in his own way. Derek wished he could dream that away from him, too.

They both groaned at the same time.

“It’s happening again,” Stiles said, gasping and pressing his fist to his chest. “When you wake up, you remember that we’re looking for you. Me and Scott, Isaac, Peter and maybe even Lydia and Chris Argent. We _won’t_ abandon you.”

Stiles looked into his eyes, his face crumpling a little in pain. Derek gasped at the pinching ache in his own chest. Then Stiles pulled him forward into a fierce hug.

“I’ll find you. You remember that.”

Derek felt them falling, collapsing from the pain and the pull of his waking, but never felt Stiles’ arms leave him. He hung on, too, until he opened his eyes and the comforting weight of Stiles’ body was gone. His eyes felt gritty, his head throbbed, and his throat felt dry and closed. His chest ached, but not as badly as in his dream.

Scott’s voice came from what sounded like a distance, demanding someone to get out of his way. Shouts, gunfire, screams. Someone shouting his name. Derek remembered Stiles’ words, and fought to lift his head. He lay on a cot of some kind, low to the ground, in a dark, musty-smelling room. No restraints. The drug they’d apparently been using to keep him down was wearing off.

Scott’s howl echoed off the stone walls. Before Derek could produce enough air or spit to answer, Peter ran through the door. Derek managed to sit up with his help.

“ _Nephew_. I’d say you had me worried, but I’ve been too busy trying not to kill several pain-in-the-ass, bossy teenagers to notice.” The corner of Peter’s mouth ticked up. “Never leave me alone with them again?”

“Deal,” Derek ground out.

“Derek!” Scott and Stiles both said his name as they burst into the room. Derek felt instant irritation that Stiles was with them in such a dangerous situation, no fangs or claws or healing ability of his own to protect himself. That was forgotten when Stiles rushed up to him with a smile. Then he only felt grateful.

“It’s good to see you, big guy. Can we get out of here now?”

Before Stiles moved away, Derek reached out and grabbed his arm. Stiles looked at him with a raised eyebrow, waiting more patiently than Stiles did most things for Derek to say something. Derek only nodded and let go, then tried to ignore the curious looks all three of them were giving him.

Getting back to Beacon Hills proved easier than Derek imagined it would, thanks to Peter. Derek didn’t have the proper paperwork to get back over the border into the US, thanks to being abducted and spirited over various borders without the proper documents in the first place. Travel by car was the only possibility. Despite Stiles carrying on for at least an hour about how they were going to end up in some brutal Mexican jail forced to confess to crimes that occurred before he was born _to satisfy the bloodlust of some guy named Carlos with a jagged scar above his right eye, a taste for human flesh and a dead brother to avenge_ , they got across the border without incident.

All because Peter had anticipated all possible problems and knew the right people to bribe.

And all this was happening despite Derek’s protests that they needed to stay and go after the people responsible. Go after Kate.

Peter had gotten the _señora_ to talk. Kate had delivered Derek to them, a gift to appease them and hopefully go a long way toward getting them off her back. He was to be one of many such deliveries, and then they’d consider leaving her alone.

They still didn’t know exactly what she did to them, or what her overall plans were. Derek felt they should worry about this. Peter insisted that Kate was his to worry about now, and since they knew she was out there, it would be easier for Derek to take proper precautions against her. Besides, he’d said, the likelihood that she’d come back for Derek were slim to none.

“So was the likelihood that instead of dying from your claws to her throat, she’d come back as some kind of fanged, evil _Avatar-Smurf_ hybrid,” Stiles had helpfully provided. He’d been amazed when Derek had described the metallic blue sheen to her skin as she shifted. Amazed and amused and horrified beyond belief.

Still, Peter insisted that they go back to Beacon Hills, and to leave him with the problem of Kate. It went against Derek’s instincts, and he planned to refuse, until Scott and Stiles agreed that he should let himself recuperate before worrying about anything like that.

His chest was still sore. It was healing, but incredibly slowly. So, thanks to the look Stiles gave him every time Kate’s name was mentioned, like he was worried Derek might fall apart right in front of them, Derek agreed to go home and let Peter deal with things in his own way.

Derek found himself wanting to talk to Stiles, alone. He had a feeling, probably a crazy feeling, that maybe his dreams hadn’t been completely in his own head. Stiles hadn’t done or said anything to hint at that, but he knew he had to find out.

Maybe he just wanted it to be true.

They spent two nights in motels rather than driving through and exhausting themselves, the four of them in the same room, so Derek didn’t have a chance to speak to Stiles alone the entire trip. He saw enough of him to know that he had been wounded by the nogitsune, though. The signs were subtle, but they were there, often when Stiles thought no one was looking.

Once they were home, though, arriving mid-day, Peter left to go do whatever kind of research Peter did, and Scott went home to see check in with his mom. Stiles did this with his dad via phone, and hung back at Derek’s loft.

Stiles sat on the couch next to Derek after hanging up with his dad. “So . . . you gonna be okay?”

Derek nodded. “I could ask you the same thing. How are you holding up after . . . what happened?”

“Doing okay. I’m dealing. But thanks. Thanks for asking.”

Derek nodded again, feeling silly for having trouble asking a simple question. Finally, he took a deep breath. “Did you dream about me?”

Stiles’ expression would have been comical if Derek hadn’t felt so vulnerable asking the question. “Did I dream about you? Uh . . . in what context exactly, Derek.” Stiles looked like he was trying not to laugh. “I mean, are we talking _nightmares_ here, like you chasing me and whapping my forehead off solid objects, or _wet_ dreams, or--”

“Okay, that’s okay. Just forget it.” Derek shook his head. At least Stiles still sounded like Stiles _part_ of the time.

Stiles’ smile disappeared. “You’re serious.” Stiles squinted a little. “I did. Once or twice. Mostly of knowing you were there but on the other side of thick fog or something, and knowing Kate was out there too, and trying to find you before she did. Just stress, worry dreams. Why?" When Derek didn't answer, Stiles blew out a breath. "Though, on the other side of the fog, you might have been naked and twirling around a stripper pole for all I know. Just saying.” He laughed, raised an eyebrow and tapped his foot in a way that made Derek think he was nervous. 

He should have joked back, should have tried. Should have _explained_. But he felt so disappointed that the real Stiles had no connection to his dreams, he simply nodded and looked straight ahead.

An awkward silence fell around them, until Stiles said, “I guess I should get going. Just wanted to make sure--”

“Did your mom ever make you pancakes?” Derek looked at Stiles, only knowing that more than anything, he didn’t really want Stiles to leave yet. And there was still that tiny hope that everything he’d said and done and felt wasn’t just in his head.

“Uhh . . . yeah. Sometimes, sure.” Stiles looked at him now like he was worried about Derek’s mental state. “Dad was usually the one who made them when we had them, though. Wasn’t too often.”

Derek swallowed around more disappointment. He guessed he’d been hoping for Stiles to launch into a story about how horrible they were. “Would you . . . tell me something about your mom? I don’t even know what she looked like.”

Stiles still frowned a little like Derek wasn’t making any sense, but he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and slid a picture out of the plastic sleeve. He held it out to Derek, watching his face intently.

Claudia Stilinski was a beautiful woman, just as he’d expected. Stiles had her eyes. They didn’t just match in color, either, but with the certain sparkle they held. Stiles’ way of smiling and laughing with more than his mouth, judging by her broad, open-mouthed smile, he got that from his mother, too.

Derek handed it back. “She’s lovely.”

Stiles nodded and looked down at the picture a long time, as if putting it away without appreciating it fully would be some sort of sacrilege. Derek put his arm on the back of the couch and let his hand drop to Stiles’ shoulder, where he squeezed.

Stiles looked up at him, a tiny smile playing on his lips, and nodded. Derek left his hand there for a few more moments, then put it back on his own thigh. He let his head drop back against the couch.

“Peter will find her, Derek. If he doesn’t, we will. She’s not going to get away with anything she’s done. It seems like she has, but it’s not going to last. We _all_ want her to pay.”

Derek nodded, then stood as Stiles did to walk him to the door. He didn't want Stiles to leave. _He didn't want to lose the connection he still felt from his dream._ “Do you and Scott have plans for Saturday?”

“I don’t think Scott does, but I can check. My dance card is probably full, you know, with my booming social life and all, but I’d be willing to shuffle it around if you want to do some research or something.”

“Good. I want you and Scott to come over around lunchtime. Plan on staying all day.” He waited for a sign from Stiles. When Stiles shrugged and nodded, he reached into his wallet and pulled out a few bills. “Bring pizzas when you come, whatever kind the two of you eat. I’ll supply everything else.”

“Will we need Peter here to help plan something, or any of the creature research he--”

“We’re not going to do research, Stiles. We’re going to watch a few movies. I have the DVDs, and I’ll buy soda and other snacks. You just bring the pizzas and Scott.”

Stiles looked alarmed. “Are you cracking up now? Because it’s a really strange and delayed break from reality here, Derek, I gotta tell you.”

“Just come bearing food.”

“Okay,” Stiles said, looking at Derek with raised eyebrows. “What movies are we gonna watch, exactly? Because Disney movies make me cry, shut up and never mention that again, and most rom-coms will send me hurtling through that wall of windows.”

Derek crossed his arms and chuckled, enjoying the surprised look on Stiles’ face. “No Disney, no sappy romantic comedies. I just think it’s about time Scott saw _Star Wars_ , don’t you?”

Stiles’ mouth dropped open, and then he laughed, leaning back at the waist. “Oh my god. As long as you don’t mind me telling him we’re going to watch Marvel movies or the _Transformers_ films or something. The only thing better than getting him to finally sit down and watch _Star Wars_ is getting him to do it under false pretenses.”

Derek shook his head, secretly thrilled at Stiles’ glee. “Tell him whatever you want.”

“Wait, you are talking about _A New Hope_ , right? The original trilogy, not the later Jar-Jar Binks nonsense?”

“Yes, Stiles, I mean the originals. I don’t even own the last three. And besides, we’ve all suffered enough lately.”

Stiles chuckled, nodding, then he shoved the money in his pocket and slid the heavy door open. “You know, I haven’t had a chance to tell you . . . I’m glad you’re back. I kinda missed you.”

“Me, too.” Derek held Stiles’ gaze for a long time, and couldn’t help but feel as if they were weighing something between them.

“I mean, after a week or two without feeling the heat of your withering gaze on me over something or another, I felt downright lost. It was weird. I can be a smart ass with Scott, but mouthing off with you is a completely different kind of satisfaction.”

 _That’s what she said_ , Stiles' voice in his head begged Derek to say, even though Derek really didn’t think it would be that funny. Instead, he asked, “Why?”

“Because you like it so much. You frown and growl and scowl and _act_ like you don’t, but you do.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. If you found me truly irritating, you could have just stayed at home one on of the many occasions where you saved my ass.”

“Though I’m loathe to admit it, you’ve saved me, too. More than once.”

“This is true. I _am_ amazing,” Stiles teased, his hand on his chest as if overcome by his own awesomeness.

“Yeah. You are,” Derek admitted softly. He didn’t move, just kept his arms crossed, a slight smile on his face that he realized might, just maybe, look like a faint grimace, if Stiles’ complaints about Derek’s facial expressions in the past could be believed.

Stiles opened his mouth like he was going to argue, then his face went slack as it sank in. “Well . . . thanks.”

“See you Saturday,” Derek said. “Bring pizza.” He watched Stiles leave, then threw himself down on his couch.

Stiles hadn’t actually been in his dream, but it _had_ been Stiles after all. Because Derek knew his voice, his mannerisms, his eye rolls and his strengths far better than he’d ever guessed. And all that meant that Derek had some thinking to do about why he knew Stiles so well, and why it had been Stiles getting him through.

And what Derek was going to do about it.

No more than fifteen minutes had passed when his phone rang. He sat up, alert, sure something horrific had happened. 

“Stiles? What’s wrong?”

“Oh, oh dude, nothing. I’m sorry--I guess I never call unless there’s an emergency, huh?”

“No,” Derek agreed, letting out a long breath and slumping against the couch in relief.

“Well, I just . . . it occurred to me that we’ve both kind of been through . . . a thing. Recently. And I wanted you to know that if you needed anything, even if it’s just some company for a while, or to talk . . . you can call me. I know you’re probably thinking that there’s nothing I can do for you, or something otherwise _oh my god, this annoying teenager can help me by shutting up_ . . . but I’m serious. You can call me, okay?”

He couldn’t hear Stiles’ heartbeat over the phone, but he knew it was racing. He knew how vulnerable Stiles must feel. And how a part of him must be wanting the company and the talking, too. But he probably didn’t want to ask.

“Okay. The same goes for you. I mean, I don’t know what you went through, but it did get inside me for a little while. I can listen, if nothing else.”

“Yeah, yeah thanks. Okay. So we can both talk about horrible things and eat junk food and cry.”

Derek knew Stiles was joking because he was uncomfortable. So he said, “We can do that,” without teasing or judging or acting as if that were something that could never, ever happen.

“Okay,” Stiles said, the little quaver in his voice making Derek want to run down the Jeep and pull him back to the loft for a while. “So call me sometime.”

“I will, Stiles.”

Derek stretched out on the couch and closed his eyes, intending to sleep on the idea that he’d told Stiles he would call him sometime, just for company or talking or maybe no reason, just because.

He smiled as he had a wonderful realization: he couldn't wait to make that call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to comment--it's nice to get them. You can also check out my Teen Wolf-heavy [Tumblr](http://cousinshelley.tumblr.com) and say hi. :)


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